


Sorry I Could Not Travel Both

by Enisy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Harems, M/M, Oral Sex, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Royalty, Sexual Slavery, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/pseuds/Enisy
Summary: When Nitya first met King Ithan, he was stillPrinceIthan and they were both adolescents. Some ten years later, one is running the show and the other is a harem slave, so it should be clear who came out on top - but it is not a zero-sum game.
Relationships: Introvert Young King with a Fierce Reputation/Rebellious Rival Prince Dragged to His Harem, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 23
Kudos: 138
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Sorry I Could Not Travel Both

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SouthernContinentSkies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/gifts).



Nitya almost wept when they pierced his ear with the gold quail that was the symbol of a foreign kingdom. And he _did_ weep when they smacked his rear and bade him to lie down: hot, angry tears that made his gullet itch. He asked them which bed was to be his, and half of them laughed in his face. The other half regarded him with dumb pity. _His_? There was no _his_. Nothing belonged to Nitya anymore, not even this unsightly trinket they’d grafted to his skin. He could take a bed – any bed – or he could sleep on the divan, sleep on the floor, sleep on another bedless creature.

And there were plenty of those: Lapachia had made several important military conquests in the past two years, so the royal harem had been enriched with over a thousand slaves. Most of them were women, but Nitya was by no means the only man. He’d heard that Lapachians’ tastes ran to the bizarre, but at the time he’d thought that meant ‘giantesses’ or ‘women with dyed green hair.’ He hadn’t expected _sodomy_.

Especially not from...

“Don’t look so frightened,” said the Veiled Lady. She belonged to the ‘pity’ half of the servants, a matronly figure whose homely cup of tea would like as not be laced with arcenic. Nitya knew the type from his readings about the Lapachian court. “His Eminence is like to meet you tomorrow, but after that you’ll have a nice, long break. He doesn’t bed the same slave twice in a month, even though the harem receives summons from him every other day. He is _quite_ insatiable.”

Insatiable, was he?

Nitya had been given cause for doubt.

It had been one of the coldest days of the year when he had met King Ithan: the very letters of his name were decked with stalactites in Nitya’s memory. Of course, back then he was _Prince_ Ithan, and they were both adolescents. Bright-eyed. Bushy-tailed. Bassoon-voiced, or just about. The boy had been part of a diplomatic envoy to Nitya’s home country of Vosq, come to broker a peace between the lands.

Neither of them had been expected to play an active role in the proceedings: only to watch and learn. Nitya had been on cloud nine. It had felt like a coming of age, a more solemn one than when his legs had sprouted hairs. He’d easily spotted Ithan between his personal escorts – huge, swarthy men who’d plucked the frilling of his shirt, fussed with his sword sheath, growled and muttered. By contrast, the prince had seemed stone-faced, quiet, shy.

 _Be_ _welcoming_ , Nitya’s mother had counseled him, _be courteous._ _S_ _ubmit to the prince’s wishes_ _._ She’d phrased it as an obligation, but in that moment, he had experienced it as a _need_ , a compulsion to bring the other boy out of his shell. Nitya hadn’t been briefed on Lapachian customs, but they couldn’t be that different from local ones: the two countries shared a border, after all. So he’d strolled up to greet Prince Ithan, who’d angled his body toward him in expectation.

“What?” he’d barked. “What is it?”

Smiling reassuringly, Nitya had placed both hands on his cheeks, and – _too late to back out_ _now_ _, too late,_ even in light of Ithan’s egg-white, bulging, horrified eyes – leaned in to kiss his forehead.

The foreign prince had jerked away so violently, he’d knocked over an urn – which had gone _crash!_ with all the hyperbole of a stage death. The pair had been sent off forthwith, and afterwards, Nitya had gotten a lecture from his lady mother, and a light beating from his weapons master. But he was convinced he wouldn’t have learned anything from the meeting, anyway.

The peace talks had failed.

Nitya gave a chuff of disbelief. _Riddle me this_ : how was it possible that Prince Ithan recoiled from an innocent kiss, while King Ithan bedded some fifteen people a month, and held down fully grown men to violate them?

He had expected cruelty – that wasn’t the point. There had been many a night when he’d lain awake after his city fell, gnawing his knuckles bloody, recalling all the rumors surrounding the new king. Allegedly, he’d drowned two hundred of his concubines on charges of sedition. What would Nitya do in that situation? Would he scream? Would he struggle? He wouldn’t beg, of that he was quite sure. Thinking along these lines, he had endowed his imaginary self with various behaviors and attributes – but he had always fixated on the _drowning_.

Not the concubines.

“Lift up your arms,” said the Veiled Lady, slipping some kind of camisole on him. Its limpid silk hung down to his thigh and left absolutely nothing to the imagination. If his parents could see him now… With a certain detachment, Nitya wondered what had become of them. Perhaps they’d received a more honorable disposal than he. Like hanging. Or decapitation. “My, but you have such soft skin,” the Veiled Lady teased him. “What have you been doing with these hands, boy? Writing love poems?”

A bitter smile tinged his lips. “Manifestos.”

His family had always been better at keeping peace than waging wars: they were all paying for that now.

Absent the Veiled Lady, the prince gave a tremulous sigh: Ithan would probably send for him in the morning. The palace interior was starting to feel like a cocoon, from which Nitya would emerge not a butterfly, but a paler, uglier, feebler caterpillar. In the meantime, he fell upon one of the Lapachian basin-beds – deep and concave – and allowed himself to scream into the endless pillows.

He’d cut his hair.

Once a shoulder-length black mane, it had been shorn to the point that the lowermost curl hooked around the arc of his ear. Nitya looked at it with fascination. Of all the stupid things to notice about a man he hadn’t seen in over a decade – a man who was about to rob him of his chastity – this one took the crown. A small laugh bunched up in his chest, threatening to rush out, and he bit his lip to stifle it. He felt giddy with terror, and divorced from his own body, looking down on it from somewhere near the bookshelves.

 _Oh no_ , he thought, _here it comes_ , seconds before he guffawed.

Ithan had been reclining on the window sill, head and torso superimposed on the palace gardens so that he seemed festooned with daisy chains. He didn’t react to Nitya’s laugh except to say: “Your manners haven’t improved much in the intervening years, have they, Nityashk?”

 _Nityashk_. Hell. The Lapachian diminutive was almost as degrading as the see-through clothes.

“Apologies, my lord,” he replied. “But when the host fails to set an example as to proper conduct, he can hardly fault his guests for slipping up.”

“Is that what you are?” asked Ithan. “A guest?”

Now the king did stand up, and although they were practically the same height, Nitya found himself backing off instinctively. Until that moment, he had not appreciated how much they really meant, these trappings of power: the diadem and the belt and the massive, jeweled rings. They underscored. They elevated. By contrast, Nitya’s camisole just served to expose him more, painting targets around his nipples.

 _If only I could_ _take it off!_ he mused, and almost burst into laughter again. Goddesses, he was losing it.

“You are not a guest,” the king went on, answering his own question. “Guests can come and go as they please. And you, Nityashk, cannot. You’re a _fixture_ , much like this lamp, or this orrery, or this chair.” He sounded pretty convinced about his standpoint… as befit someone with 1291 slaves. “Come here now.”

Nitya stayed put, wishing he could shrink down into a rat or a cockroach. Maybe then the king would let him slink away, or crush him and be done with it.

“All right,” said Ithan, and was on him in two short strides, fisting his camisole and dragging him toward the bed. The opulent surroundings trembled and spun, as if Nitya were on a surface of a coin that was being flipped.

Resistance wouldn’t amount to much, with the royal guard posted outside and the full strength of the Lapachian army not far beyond. Nevertheless, Nitya used this opportunity to shove at Ithan’s chest. It was like a wave lapping at a promontory: powerless in the short term. Ithan simply took hold of Nitya’s hands and guided them toward his crotch.

Goddesses. He was _hard_.

“No,” gasped Nitya, courage flagging. When he pulled away, the other man grabbed for him, sending up a ribbon of sound – _rrrrrrip_ – as the camisole tore straight down the middle. “Go to hell!”

“There is no hell, Nityashk,” said Ithan patiently, “and so much the better for you. Else you might have to worry about the sins your body is poised to inflict upon your soul.”

Every time Nitya had pictured this encounter in his head, he was pinned to the mattress face down, so he didn’t have to look at Ithan or what Ithan was going to do to him. But reality was not considerate of his desires. Instead, Ithan took hold of Nitya’s neck – hard enough to give him a scare, though not hard enough to bruise – and pushed him down onto his back. Very slow, very gentle, as though Nitya were a baby he was trying not to wake. There was something claustrophobic about the bed’s tublike design now: a sense of internment.

“There you go,” Ithan purred. With his free hand, he batted aside the torn flap of silk and thumbed Nitya’s right nipple until it stiffened, darkening from pink to rose. Nitya couldn’t hold back a cry of pain – was it pain? “Shhh,” said Ithan. “You were always shit at military strategy, anyway. You and your parents – wouldn’t know a good infantry maneuver if it slapped you on the rear. Isn’t this so much easier?” He reached for something on the nightstand. “You just have to lie back… and _take_ it.”

Something cold and oily invaded the area between his legs. Nitya yelped, feeling unbearably shy. He was no virgin, but he’d never had intercourse with a _man_ before, never even registered it as a possibility. The rays streaming in through the open window made this act seem all the more scandalous: as if the whole population of Vosq were stood beside the bed, watching their crown prince get defiled in broad daylight.

“Fuck, but you’re pretty,” said Ithan, ignoring Nitya’s whimpers as he opened him with his fingers. He seemed to know what he was doing, pistoning up and down, in and out. “Let the council shout itself hoarse: I was right not to call for your execution.”

Why didn’t you? asked Nitya silently, arching his spine as Ithan’s erection slotted between his legs. He actually teared up when the tip finally lodged at his entrance. He had the sense that he would change irrevocably after this, like those fairy tale heroes who drank of a forbidden well – that he would lose some part of himself. He didn’t get to reflect on it long, though. One powerful roll of his hips, and Ithan was inside of him.

 _G_ _oddesses_ , Nitya’s head screamed, but all that came out was “ _Guh_ –”

“Yes,” Ithan hissed, closing his eyes to the pleasure. A couple more thrusts, and he was all the way in. We’re making love, thought Nitya with thrill and wonder and revulsion. His body, too, acted as though it were clearing space for a lover, not a rapist, his walls stretching to accommodate him. “ _Fuck_ , yes.”

Ithan’s length twitched and writhed inside of him. Then, without warning, the man grabbed both of his cheeks and leaned in. But he wasn’t going for Nitya’s mouth: his trajectory pointed higher up. When Nitya realized what was happening, he tossed his head, thrashing wildly.

“What’s wrong?” Ithan’s smile was a planet on an overcast sky, there and gone again. His fingers twisted into Nitya’s loose strands. “I was just saying hello.”

He gave a small thrust, punching a gasp out of his victim.

“Do you know,” said Ithan in a conversational tone, like they were skipping stones together, “when I didn’t accept your greeting that day, I caused quite the diplomatic incident?”

Nitya didn’t know that. It was hard to think with a man’s cock rearranging his insides, but he was quite sure no one had mentioned that day again in his presence.

“It’s true,” continued Ithan. He’d stopped moving, but Nitya could still feel the strange, solid mass inside of him – maybe even more acutely than before. It was plumping up. Stiffening. Throbbing. _T_ _hrobbing_. “Your council was prepared to put a lid on it, but one of the servants blabbed, and the whole thing got blown out of proportion. ‘Future king of Lapachia refuses to greet Prince Nitya at diplomatic summit.’”

Another, bigger throb made Nitya shiver. How was he _getting off_ on this?

“Your parents had to put a quick end to the peace talks, as I’m sure you understand. That was the reason we had to go to war with Vosq, in the end.” His eyes flashed with mirth. “The reason you are here.”

It took several seconds for Nitya to process the magnitude of that statement – after which he let out an agonized, animal snarl and tried to shake off the man’s weight. He was seeing red.

“None of that now,” chided Ithan, with a few measured thrusts that robbed Nitya of speech and breath. All the wriggling had just served to entice him more, judging by his hooded eyes. His lust was frightening to Nitya. Even worse was the interest his _own_ cock was starting to take in the proceedings. His insides lit up every time the other man snapped his hips forward. He whined low in his throat, helpless to stop himself. Ithan’s length filled him and stretched him in electrifying ways. Sometimes it hurt. And sometimes it felt _nice_ , hitting a spot inside that made his vision blur.

“Good boy,” Ithan praised him. “Your country submitted, and so will you, Nityashk – as often as I ask you to.” Absurdly, his mother’s words rang through his head: _submit to the prince’s wishes_. “Mmm, you’re so perfect like this. Open and sweet and ready for me. Fuck, and you’re drooling. You love this, too, don’t you? Never mind. You’ll learn. You’ll _learn_ to love it…”

 _Smack, smack, smack_ , Ithan’s hips went. _Slap_. _Grind_. His eyes were unnecessarily blue – and when he pressed a kiss to the center of Nitya’s palm, the young man fell apart with a sob. At the same time, warmth pooled inside him: a physical effusion where they were joined, and something higher up, a sense of satiety he’d rather not examine. Ithan kept coming, thick and copious, as if marking him in some hidden way. When he was spent, he collapsed on top of him with a happy sigh.

Then there was silence.

A slosh of liquids.

Heavy breathing.

At length, Ithan shifted his weight, supporting himself on one elbow. He seemed jovial, pleasure-drunk. “You enjoyed that, too, Nityashk. Say true now.” Ithan’s hands kept fluttering over his face, prodding, grasping. He seemed very focused for some reason, as if he were rearranging jigsaw pieces. Nitya winced when the member inside him began to make its presence felt again. Insatiable, indeed. “I was with the ex-prince of Faros last week – now _that_ was a cold fish. I doubt he’s ever had an orgasm in his life.”

Even through his haze of arousal, Nitya gave a dubious stare. What was he talking about? Was that some kind of sick joke?

“He hasn’t... my lord,” he said haltingly. “The youngest offspring of the Faros royal family are sterilized and given herbs to suppress their sexual desire. By pruning the family tree, they hope to prevent disputes over the succession.” A harsh _Didn’t you know?_ almost tumbled out his throat.

“Huh,” said Ithan.

Nitya was speechless. When their guardians had pulled them aside all those years ago, something else had been severed, he was starting to realize. Something had _snapped_. He’d thrown himself into diplomacy, and Ithan into warfare, and – well, between the two of them, it should be clear who had come out on top.

But it was not a zero-sum game.

The next time Ithan called him in, a mere four days later, he was standing beside a different window – the room was large enough that it had several – applying a quill pen to the wall map. Lines and circles emerged under his hand, along with all manner of punctuation: brackets and ellipses and question marks.

“Nityashk,” he called out, still dead set on that diminutive. “Come here.”

This time, Nitya complied without much hesitation. Once he was within reach, the king slung a collegial arm around his neck, like they were out for a stroll together. The illusion didn’t last long, though, as Ithan’s fingers found his quail earring and gave it a proprietary tug.

“Marzieu, your old neighbor, is ripe for the taking,” he said, jabbing at the swan-shaped country with his nib. “Minimal resistance in the south... wide open in the east. Alas, Lapachia’s forces are worn thin right now, culling all these local insurrections. On your knees,” he added, without missing a beat. Too shocked to react, Nitya had to be seized by the shoulders and _dragged_ to the floor. Ithan’s left hand latched behind his head, holding it to his already tumescent crotch. He went on: “I don’t even know why places like Stranten are choosing this _precise_ moment to rebel.”

His thumb pulled on Nitya’s lower lip, prising his mouth open, wide and wider, until it admitted Ithan’s clothed erection. The smell of musk slammed into his nose.

“Stranten was one of the earliest regions to fall at our hand,” mused Ithan. “They have had ample time to come to terms with their circumstances.”

A wet spot was quickly forming on the fabric. It was sleazy and uncomfortable, and Nitya made enough unhappy noises for Ithan to let go of him.

“What?” he demanded, even as he freed himself from his breeches. “Something on your mind?”

Nitya had only meant to catch his breath. However, the open question gave him courage. As a matter of fact, there _was_ something on his mind. He only had to make certain he could convey it tactfully.

“My lord,” he said, “the unrest in Stranten is due to your last public address, where you implied you are an infidel. The Strantenites are a very pious people.”

Nitya was panting with exertion and excitement. Ithan’s political inaptitude could easily become a rope ladder, lifting him up from the pit he was in. He thought about his mother again: _submit to the prince’s wishes_. He thought about two hundred dead concubines.

“Perhaps,” stammered Nitya, “perhaps it would be advisable for you to be baptized in their religion.” He spoke quickly, aware that his window of opportunity was closing fast. “As a symbolic gesture. The ritual consists simply in drinking honey from the ecumen’s beehive and saying a few words of prayer. And in Faros up north, they –”

A sharp sting suddenly rippled across his cheek. “Did I say you could stop?”

Nitya flushed. The slap had renewed his jaundice toward the situation. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Moments later, his mouth was stuffed full of cock, while his hands clutched Ithan’s thighs, eyelashes scooping up tears. Once more, unto the breach. He hated this. He hated it with every iota of his being. And still, the harsh descent from pride to humiliation had given him a rush. His breeches were fit to burst, and his throat was making the deepest, darkest, most debauched sounds. Nitya was disgusted with himself: the way he hummed and gurgled, as if spurring on his aggressor.

But Ithan, for all his bravado, seemed rather lost in thought. His fingers skimmed restlessly over Nitya’s ear. There was something of that boy in him again, before they’d gone and split themselves in half. _Submit to the prince’s wishes. Submit to the king’s appetites. Submit._

Nitya’s knees ached from the hard stone floor. He shot a glance at the map, with its invisible links and joints, its encrypted promises. If this was all he had to do – if this was all he had to _be_ –

Ithan’s cock swelled in his mouth, while his hand ruffled his hair in encouragement. Tears gathered at the corners of Nitya’s eyes, but he bobbed his head with more enthusiasm, swirled his tongue with more suction.

I could get used to this, he thought with a dash of horror.

Then, once more, with surprising relief: I _could_ get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [enisywrites](https://enisywrites.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come on over if you want to drop me a prompt or a question, or if you just want to say hi!


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